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THE  LYNCHING  BEE 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


SOME  BOOKS  by  WILLIAM  ELLERY  LEONARD 

THE  POET  OF  GALILEE 

THE  VAUNT  OF  MAN  and  Other  Poems 

GLORY  OF  THE  MORNING 

(In  "  Wisconsin  Plays,"  First  Series) 

Published  by  B.  W.  Huebsch,  New  York 

THE  FRAGMENTS  OF  EMPEDOCLES 

(Rendered  into  Blank  Verse) 
AESOP  AND  HYSSOP 

(Humorous  Fables  in  Rhyme) 
SOCRATES,  MASTER  OF  LIFE 

(A  Companion  Study  to  the  Poet  of  Galilee) 

Published  by  The  Open  Court  Publishing  Co.,  Chicago 

LUCRETIUS 

(Rendered  Entire  into  Blank  Verse) 

Published  by  J.  M.  Dent  and  Co.,  London 
E.  P.  Button  and  Co.,  New  York 


THE  LYNCHING   BEE 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

WILLIAM  ELLERY  LEONARD 


BapffTJffas  p.d),a  sine  OtoTtpoxtov  ort 


ILIAD,  I,  85 


NEW  YORK    B.  W.  HUEBSCH,  INC.,    1920 


SOME  BOOKS  by  WILLIAM  ELLERY  LEONARD 

THE  POET  OF  GALILEE 

THE  VAUNT  OF  MAN  and  Other  Poems 

GLORY  OF  THE  MORNING 

(In  ft  Wisconsin  Plays,"  First  Series) 

Published  by  B.  W.  Huebsch,  New  York 

THE  FRAGMENTS  OF  EMPEDOCLES 

(Rendered  into  Blank  Verse) 
AESOP  AND  HYSSOP 

(Humorous  Fables  in  Rhyme) 
SOCRATES,  MASTER  OF  LIFE 

(A  Companion  Study  to  the  Poet  of  Galilee) 

Published  by  The  Open  Court  Publishing  Co.,  Chicago 

LUCRETIUS 

(Rendered  Entire  into  Blank  Verse) 

Published  by  J.  M.  Dent  and  Co.,  London 
E.  P.  Dutton  and  Co.,  New  York 


THE  LYNCHING    BEE 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

WILLIAM  ELLERY  LEONARD 


ffas  ftdla  sins  dtonpoxtov  on  olada. 

ILIAD,  I,  85 


NEW  YORK    B.  W.  HUEBSCH,  INC.,    1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
B.  W    HUEBSCH,  INC. 


FEINTED   IN   THE    U.   S.   A. 


TO 
THOSE  IN  ALL  LANDS 

WHO, 

IN  THE  WORDS  OF  EMERSON, 

"WALK  AS  PROPHECIES  OF 

THE  NEXT  AGE" 


440535 


FOREWORD 

This  volume  brings  together  chiefly  poems  that  attempt, 
by  some  union  of  imagination  and  criticism,  to  phrase  the 
ominous  turmoil  of  the  times.  It  is  the  author's  hope 
that  it  may  be  followed  by  a  volume  phrasing  more  ex 
plicitly  the  creative  energies  and  purposes  already  so 
undauntedly  at  work. 

W.  E.  L. 

MADISON,  Wis. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I     BY  FIRE  AND  ROPE 

THE  LYNCHING  BEE n 

LEO  FRANK 27 

A  WAR-MOVIE 28 

II     BY  COURT  AND  DECREE 

THE  HERETICS 37 

THE  BASTILLE 40 

TOM  MOONEY 42 

THE  OLD  AGITATOR 46 

THE  GREAT  GOD  MUM 49 

III  MARCH  AND  DANCE 

As  I  LISTENED  BY  THE  LILACS  ....  53 

THE  PIED  PIPER 57 

IV  PISTON-ROD   AND   BELTED-WHEEL 

THE  TRAIN 61 

THE  SHOPS 64 

V    DEEP  SEA  AND  HIGH  HILL 

SALVAGE  OF  THE  SEA 67 

THE  MOUNTAIN  OF  SKULLS     ....  70 

VI     SCRAPS  OF  PAPER 

THE  PROPHET 81 

THE  PLEDGE 82 

MAY-NIGHT 83 

To  THE  DEAD  DOUGHBOYS 84 


I     By  Fire  and  Rope 


THE  LYNCHING  BEE 
LEO  FRANK 
A  WAR-MOVIE 


The  Lynching  Bee 

I 

HERE  at  the  crossroads  is  the  night  so  black 
It  swallows  tree  and  thicket,  barn  and  stack, 
Even  though  the  sickle  of  the  new  moon  hang, 
Keen  as  a  knife,  bent  like  a  boomerang, 
A  witch's  bangle  in  the  Zodiac. 

Black  on  the  crossroads  .  .  .  but  in  skies  off  yonder 
There  broods  a  fiery  gloom,  a  hectic  glow, 
Like  the  last  twilight  just  before  the  thunder, 
Or  omens  of  doomed  soothsayers,  long  ago  .  .  . 
To-day  the  veriest  dog  or  mule  would  know 
It  only  means  a  lighted  town  thereunder. 


II 


Honk,  Honk! 

On  to  the  fork !     Honk !     Honk ! 

You  hear? 

From  hand-squeezed  bulb  and  belching  conch! 

Honk!     Honk! 

Down  in  the  hollow  now,  but  near. 

How  many  there  ?  — 

Honk!     Honk! 

Topping  the  hill  off  there  — 

Behind  the  foremost  cone  of  glare  — 

That,  like  the  swift  typhoon, 

Sweeps  on  along  each  length  of  rut 


And  makes  their  ridges  as  clear  cut 
As  in  Uganda  at  high  noon 
Stand  out  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon. 
Honk, —  for  the  brasses  and  cat-gut ! 
Honk,  Honk, —  for  cymbals  and  bassoon ! 
New  times,  new  music  and  new  fun ! 
Though  Bottom's  gone  and  Oberon, 
With  Satyr,  Dwarf,  and  pet  Baboon, 
Midsummer  nights  have  still  their  rites. 
Honk,  Honk:     "  We've  caught  the  coon!  " 
("Honk"  means  they've  caught  the  coon.) 


Ill 


They  stop  —  they  jerk  —  they  chug  —  they  back. 
And  in  a  monstrous  ring  they  park, 
With  ghostly  cones  converging  from  the  dark 
Upon  a  central  tree  all  split  and  black, 
Whose  limbs  and  leaves  are  caverned  out  of  sight 
In  the  eternity  of  night. 
It's  like  a  magic  circle  where 
Snake-dancers,  striped,  brown,  and  bare, 
With  pouch  in  waving  hand  and  horns  on  hair, 
In  old  times  swayed  and  swung 
And  called  on  Tunga-Tung, 
With  nasal  ang  and  gutteral  unk 
Around  a  lightning-blasted  trunk, 
Or  hissed  in  chorus  with  a  serpent-stare. 
Yet  nothing  like  this  there  — 
It's  only  the  sign-board  of  the  town's, 
And  crossroads  cottonwood  by  Farmer  Brown's. 
[12] 


IV 

It's  only  twelve  true  men  in  pants  and  coats 

(The  sort  who  pay  their  bills,  and  cast  their  votes, 

Or  file  to  jury  boxes  on  hot  afternoons)    .  .  . 

Each  with  a  finger  on  a  trigger, 

Dragging  by  ropes,  around  his  gullet  tied, 

With  hobbled  legs  and  arms  well  lashed  to  side, 

The  best  of  all  buffoons  — 

A  banjo-boy  and  jigger, 

A  hovel-doorway  bawler  of  coarse  tunes. 

Like  Caliban  he  shuffles,  only  bigger; 

Or  Ourang-outang,  only  larger-eyed  — 

A  bandy-legged  nigger, 

Quite  jerky,  but  all  silent  down  inside. 


They  take  the  rope  off  at  the  tree  —  perhaps 

Won't  hang  him  after  all?  —  These  humorous  chaps! 

Just  make  him  dance  amid  the  glare 

For  women-folk  and  boys  and  girls  back  there, 

Still  in  their  seats? 

Make  him  show  off  his  feats?  — 

Stand  on  his  head-piece  while  he  eats 

Hoe-cakes  or  possum  sweets? 

Qr  turn  him  up,  and  have  him  wag  his  ears; 

Or  wriggle  and  wrinkle  scalp  and  brow, 

Like  a  fly-bitten  back  of  Holstein  cow, 

And  throw  from  pate  a  bowl  or  plate, 

While  underneath  he  grins  and  leers?  — 

[13] 


He'll  butt  his  thick  skull  'gainst  the  trunk,  I  think, 
And  then  draw  back,  guffaw,  and  wink. 


VI 

Not  so.     They  pay  a  chain  out  link  by  link. 

Hear  it  rattle,  hear  it  clink! 

A  good  stout  chain  so  much  can  do !  — 

As  dancing  bear  and  old-time  showman  knew, 

Or  bloodhound  leashed  at  kennel  door  in  straw. 

And  down  along  the  Nile, 

With  Pharaoh's  Sphinx  in  view, 

The  Coptic  coolies,  with  a  chain  or  two 

Around  his  belly,  tail,  and  jaw, 

Aboard  the  freighter  hoist  the  crocodile 

For  Circus  or  for  Zoo  — 

A  stout  chain  holds, 

Come  fear  or  fire,  whatever's  in  its  folds. 


VII 

They  strip  him,  overalls  and  shirt, 
They  set  his  back  against  the  tree, 
They  wind  the  links  so  tight  about, 
In  girdles  two  and  three.  .  .  . 
And  yet  it  hardly  seems  to  hurt, — 
For  not  a  word  says  he. 
Honk!     Honk! 

[14] 


VIII 

He  stands  five  fathoms  deep  in  glare  agrin. 

Honk,  Honk!     Honk,  Honk! 

His  skin-bark  on  the  tree  bark-skin, 

Trunk  grafted  on  to  trunk. 

Honk!     Honk!  .  .  . 

The  graft  should  take,  for  they  are  close  of  kin, — 

Both  sprung  of  one  old  soil  of  earth, 

Both  fed  on  rain  and  air  and  dirt  from  birth, 

Both  tough  and  stark  and  thin  .  .  . 


IX 


One  steps  with  jack-knife  up.     And  he 
Will  cut  the  bark  —  of  which  dark  tree? 
Nigger  or  cottonwood  ?  —  With  that 
He  gelds  him  like  a  colt  or  cat! 
But  the  coon's  caterwauls  and  wails 
(Honk,  Honk!     Honk,  Honk!) 
Fall  thin  and  blurred  and  flat  — 
While  every  conch-horn  at  him  rails: 
"  No  more  he'll  spawn  in  bush  or  bed, 
With  cocaine  crazed,  with  whiskey  drunk, 
A  charcoal  woolly  head, 
Or  yellow  half-breed  brat!" 
Honk,  Honk! 


Another  comes  with  brush  and  pot, 

And  smears  him  over,  as  with  ointment  hot. 

[15] 


Honk!     Honk! 

Good  fellow,  at  your  trellised  house  in  town, 
You  boil  the  tar  to  indigo  and  brown, 
Shimmering  in  sunshine,  bubbling  to  the  brim   - 
Why  waste  it  at  the  crossroads  here  on  him? 
Tar  on  your  driveway,  rolled  in  grit, 
Makes  you  a  roadbed  firm  and  fit; 
Tar  on  your  upturned  row-boat  sinks 
In  all  the  nail-holes,  joints,  and  chinks; 
Tar  on  your  gadding  daughter's  white  kid  shoe 
Was  black,  and  tickled  you  all  through  ; 
But,  brother,  with  the  brush  and  pot, 
Tar  does  no  good  on  hide  of  Hottentot  — 
Or  have  you  feathers  in  a  bag  or  two  ?  — 
If  so,  by  now,  he'd  just  as  lief  as  not. 
Honk!     Honk! 


XI 

With  rags,  and  straw,  and  sticks,  and  other  toys, 
In  run  the  women-folk  and  girls  and  boys. 
They'll  prod  his  ribs?  tickle  his  arm-pits?  sop 
His  sweating  cheeks,  as  with  a  pantry  mop? 
Such  crossroads  pranks  are  not  just  right 
For  decent  town-folk,  it  would  seem.  .  .  . 
(Or  is  this  only  a  midsummer  dream 
In  innocent  midnight?)   .  .  . 
Besides  they  haven't  the  heart.     They  drop 
Their  knickknacks  at  black  ankles  and  bare  feet, 
And  cool  him  from  the  spouts  of  cans 
(Fetched  from  below-stairs,  under  washing  pans 
[16] 


Porcelain-lined  and  scoured  so  white). 
And  then  they  all,  excepting  one,  retreat, 
Back  through  the  length  of  light. 


XII 

This  one  is  honored  over  every  other, — 
She  is  the  dead  child's  Mother. 

And  the  two  glare  and  glare 

At  one  another 

In  two  eternities  of  hate  and  pain, 

Yet  with  such  monstrous  union  in  despair, 

Such  hideous  sameness  in  their  haggard  shapes, 

The  one,  the  other, 

That  you  would  say  the  twain 

Seemed  like  a  savage  sister  and  twin-brother 

Dying  of  hunger  out  among  the  apes. 


XIII 

Her  hand  is  clutching  her  unsuckled  breast  — 

You  know  the  rest: 

The  bloody  curls,  the  dainty  skirt  a  shred, 

The  sprawling  hand-prints  on  the  legs  and  head, 

Her  body's  little  body  in  a  shed.  .  .  . 

Then  down  she  kneels ; 

You  see  her  hunched  back  and  her  upturned  heels.  .  . 

But  not  the  scratch  and  scratch, 

Not  the  small  flame  that  tips  the  second  match.  .  .  . 

And  not  her  hands,  her  face,  her  hank  of  hair, — 

[17] 


As  when  a  Java  woman  kneels  in  prayer, 

Under  a  temple-hut  of  thatch, 

Before  some  devil-idol  standing  lone, — 

Not  far  from  jungles  and  the  tiger's  lair, — 

Carved  from  the  teak-wood  to  a  jet-black  face, 

With  Pagan  wrinkles,  curving  pair  by  pair, 

With  set  grimace, 

And  two  great  eyeballs,  staring  white  in  stone.  .  . 

Whilst  smoke  curls  roofward  from  its  hidden  base. 

The  Mother  rises  .  .  .    will  depart  .  .  . 

Her  duty  done  .  .  .  and  her  desire.  .  .  . 

And  as  she  turns,  you  see  a  strange 

And  quiet  rapture  of  most  uncouth  change. 

For  from  her  burning  marrow,  her  crazed  heart, 

She  has  transferred  the  fire 

Of  horror  and  despair 

To  the  dumb  savage  there.  .  .  . 

She  has  transferred,  she  thinks,  the  fire  to  him. 

Honk,  Honk!  let  lights  be  dim! 

(And  now  the  lights  are  dim.)   .  .  . 


XIV 


for  a  moment  is  the  night  so  black 
It  swallows  tree  and  coon  and  all  the  pack, 
And  lets  the  sickle  of  the  new  moon  hang, 
Keen  as  a  knife,  bent  like  a  boomerang, 
A  witch's  bangle  in  the  Zodiac. 

[18] 


XV 

Gone  is  the  light  that  played  upon  the  tree, 

But  at  the  cottomvood's  own  base 

Another  light  now  takes  its  place  — 

And  there  is  still  so  much  for  us  to  see. 

Honk!  Honk! 

There  have  been  many  bonfires  on  the  earth, 

Born  out  of  many  moods  and  needs  of  men: 

As  when  the  maskers,  in  their  twilight  mirth 

On  Wessex  heaths,  would  burn  Guy  Fawkes  again; 

As  when  the  bustling  country-side  in  dread 

Against  the  Armada's  coming  set  the  beacons, 

In  the  heroic  English  days,  on  Beachy  Head, 

When  the  midsummer  sea-winds  blew; 

As  wThen  the  village  dames  and  Yankee  deacons 

Out  on  the  common  had  a  barbecue; 

As  when  the  boys  in  South  and  North 

Still  make  the  boxes  blaze  and  crackle  on  the  Fourth. 

The  ghouls  and  witches  too 

In  olden  times  and  regions  far  away 

Danced  at  their  wonted  rendezvous 

Upon  the  Brocken  on  the  first  of  May, 

Screaming  round  the  bonfire's  light 

All   through  Walpurgis   Night. — 

Honk!  Honk! 

There  is  much  fascination  in  a  flame, — 

Not  least,  whenever  it  has  sprung 

In  intertwining  tongue  and  tongue, 

And  left  the  one  small  spot  from  whence  it  came  — 

Faster,  faster,  higher,  higher, 

[19] 


Shapes  of  wing,  and  wave,  and  lyre, 

Shapes  of  demon-heads  and  peaked  caps 

And  flying  smocks,  and  shreds  and  scraps 

Of  all  fantastic  things  without  a  name. 

Tongue  after  tongue  in  middle  air  — 

Snatched  from  existence,  how  and  where?  — 

There  is  much  fascination  in  a  flame  — 

Not  least,  when  it  is  yellow,  blue,  and  red, 

With  blackness  for  a  background  and  a  frame, 

Still  fuel-fed 

With  straw  and  wood  and  tar  and  kerosene, 

And  some  organic  matter  still  alive. — 

Its  witcheries  of  color,  how  they  strive !  — 

Even  though  some  smudge  and  smoke  may  get  between. 


Yet  two  vast  bloodshot  eyeballs  by  their  might 

Out-top  the  flame,  though  from  the  flame  their  light  — 

Two  eyeballs  wrought  (like  eyeballs  of  the  steer's 

Or  dog's,  or  cat's,  or  woodchuck's,  or  a  deer's) 

By  one  blind  Nature  in  a  mammal's  womb, — 

By  one  Herself  with  neither  eyes  nor  ears, 

Nor  birth,  nor  breath,  nor  doom. 

The  two  vast  eyeballs  grow  and  grow, 
Till,  to  the  masters  of  the  revels, 
They  seem  the  eyeballs  of  the  devil's 
Ascending  from  hell-fire  down  below. 
The  masters  will  not  have  it  so: 
A  pole,  all  glowing  charcoal  at  the  tip, — 
[20] 


Zip,  Zip!      Zip,  Zip! 

Honk,  Honk!     Honk,  Honk! 

And  the  blind  savage  at  the  flaming  tree 

No  more  will  glare  so  monstrously. 


XVII 

But  on  the  crossroads  our  midsummer  dream 

Converts  each  flame  into  a  scream,  a  scream  — 

A  shriek,  a  shriek! 

The  horns  honk  at  them  as  a  hose  at  fire; 

But  still  with  every  honk  they  come, 

Shriek  after  shriek, 

But  fiercer,  faster,  higher! 

(And  all  the  while  before,  he  was  as  dumb 

As  Roman  martyr,  schooled  to  turn  the  cheek.) 

Honk,  honk,  away  to  left  and  right !  — 

Between  the  honking  and  the  shrieking  black 

The  odds  (awhile)  are  ten  to  one  to-night 

In  favor  of  the  blazing  maniac! 

All  ancient  Africa  is  in  his  yells: 

The  wounded  zebra's  neighing,  the  gazelle's 

Fierce  whinny  at  the  salt-lick,  and  the  goat's ; 

The  roars  of  lions,  with  distended  throats, 

Over  the  moonlit  rocks  for  hollow  hunger; 

The  bellowing  elephants,  with  jaws  agape, 

And  lifted  trunks  that  thrash  across  their  backs 

Like  writhing  pythons  or  the  great  sea-conger,. 

Their  monstrous  hindlegs  bogged  beyond  escape 

In  fire-swept  jungles  off  their  beaten  tracks. 

All  Africa  is  in  the  negro's  shrieks: 

[21] 


The  forests  with  their  thousand  parrot-beaks, 

From  Nile  and  Congo  to  the  Cape; 

But  the  Gorilla,  the  man-ape, 

With  his  broad,  hairy,  upright  chest, 

Seems  to  out-scream  the  rest. 

All  Africa  is  in  his  agony: 

The  human  ladings  at  the  western  coast, 

The  slave-ship,  and  the  storm  at  sea, 

The  naked  bodies  (never  very  old)  — 

Dragged,  sick  and  crippled,  from  the  fetid  hold 

And  over  the  pitching  gunwales  tossed, 

Both  male  and  female,  overboard, 

While  sharks,  careening  on  their  backs, 

In  the  green  swells  with  scudding  foam  astreak, 

Ate  up  the  blacks, 

And  crew  and  captain  prayed  the  Lord, 

Or  crammed  fresh  oakum  in  the  leak. 

All  Africa  is  on  his  lips: 

The  million  sweats,  the  million  bloody  whips, 

The  million  ankles  festering  in  a  cord  — 

The  unborn  baby  still  between  the  hips, 

The  bent  gray  head  along  the  rice-swamp  humming, 

"  O  Massa  Gawd,  I'se  coming." 


XVIII 

His  voice  has  come  from  other  times  and  places.  . 
And  hence  away  it  carries  far  and  far.  .  .  . 
For  in  mid-darkness,  level  with  a  limb, 
Above  the  flames  and  smoking  tar, 
[22] 


Ride  feather-crested  heads  that  bob  at  him, 

With  peering  faces, 

There  —  and  —  there  —  and  there! 

Faces,  Faces, 

Sudden  and  weird  as  those  that  loom  and  peep 

'Upon  us  nightly  just  before  we  sleep. 

No  hands,  nor  arms,  nor  tomahawks  you  see, 

No  thighs  in  buck-skins  dyed  and  slashed, 

No  moccasin,  no  foot,  no  knee, 

Not  even  a  copper  torso  brave  and  bare 

From  many  a  war-path  scarred  and  gashed  — 

But  only  faces,  faces,  faces, 

Riding  in  the  air  — 

Faces,  faces,  faces,  faces, 

Feather-crested  with  long  braided  hair, 

Peering  with  an  old  desire 

From  the  gloom  upon  the  fire, 

Summoned  back  from  Otherwhere.  .  .  . 

Summoned  back  from  What-has-been : 

"  Is  that  a  Jesuit  father  at  the  stake 

Burning  for  his  Jesus'  sake?  — 

He  hung  us  crosses  round  our  necks  to  save  — 

But  when  the  Mohawks  to  our  village  came 

They  killed  both  squaw  and  brave; 

We  Hurons  put  the  Mumble-Jumble  to  the  flame. 

The  cross  it  was  no  good  to  make  us  win  — 

It  was  bad  medicine !  " 

And  Seminole,  Pawnee,  and  Sioux, 

Apache,  Blackfoot,  Chippewa,  and  Crow, 

Each  gloats  as  if  he  saw  anew 

His  own  best  captive  of  the  long  ago.  .  .  . 


[23] 


XIX 

The  faces  fade  away.  .  .  . 

The  Negro's  cries 

Have  joined  the  uncouth  sounds  of  Yesterday  — 

The  incantations  to  the  blood-red  moon, 

The  ululations  in  the  eclipse  at  noon, 

The  old  palm-island  lullabies 

That  ring-nosed  crones  were  used  to  croon, 

Squatting  circle-wise.  .  .  . 

And  the  twelve  Shadows  to  the  fire  fling 

Great  logs  with  fungus,  spines,  and  rotted  pith, 

And  great  dead  boughs  with  thin  and  sprawling  arms 

(Fetched  from  about  a  long  abandoned  spring, 

And  toad-stool  woodlots  of  surrounding  farms) 

As  if  to  cage  in  wickerwork  therewith 

(Like  the  wild  people  of  a  South-sea  myth) 

The  Demon-in-fire  from  everything  it  harms.  .  .  . 

The  Negro's  corpse  will  take  strange  shapes, 
As  the  flames  gnaw  it,  flesh  and  bone; 
But  neither  men  shall  see,  nor  apes, 
For  it  shall  burn  from  now  alone.  .  .  . 

Alone  .  .  .  and  up  and  up  ...  and  down  and  down.  .  .  . 
While  honkers  honk  it  back  to  town. 


XX 

At  last  the  stench,  or  glow  of  embers,  brings 

The  wolves,  or  wolf-like  things.  .  .  . 

Such  as  on  earthquake  midnights  prowl  around 

[24] 


Smoulder  of  fallen  beams  and  littered  ground, 

And  tear  from  dead  hands  golden  finger-rings. 

But  though  they  crouch  in  slow  two-legged  stealth, 

Their  hunt  is  not  for  wealth. 

They  paw  into  the  cinders,  as  with  hooks.  .  .  . 

Snatch  something  out, 

With  gloating,  starveling  looks  .  .  . 

A  bit  of  rib  ...  or  skull  ...  or  crup  .  .  . 

Hot  ash  and  finger  knuckle  .  .  . 

They  wrap  them  up, 

And  putter  round  about  .  .  . 

And  chuckle  .  .  . 

And  foot  it  off  and  down  the  road, 

Past  the  weasel,  skunk,  and  toad, 

The  barnyard  rat, 

The  hooting  owl  and  the  whirring  bat. 


XXI 

But  over  the  spot  of  glowing  embers,  listen, 

The  poplar's  leaves  are  rustling  like  the  rain 

That  patters  on  my  garden-shrubs  by  night.  .  .  . 

The  dew  may  glisten, 

The  south-wind  come  this  way  again, 

And  wander  thither, 

But  the  charred  cottonwood  has  caught  the  blight.  .  .  . 

Its  leaves  shall  wither. 

Here  on  the  fork,  except  that  spot  of  red 

(Still  fierce  as  some  primordial  desire), 

All  lust  is  dead : 

The  lust  to  breed,  the  lust  to  burn; 

[25] 


The  rut  of  flesh,  the  glut  of  fire.  .  .  . 

Lift  up  the  head, 

If  still  you  can,  and  turn 

To  the  great  spaces  of  the  skies. 

Black  .  .  .  black  ...  all  black  .  .  . 

The  moon  has  set, —  perhaps  elsewhere  to  hang, 

Keen  as  a  knife,  bent  like  a  boomerang, 

A  witch's  bangle  in  the  Zodiac  .  .  . 

Black  .  .  .  black  ...  all  black  .  .  . 

Though  dawn  be  pregnant  with  her  enterprise, 

And  stars  perhaps  will  keep  .  .  . 

Black  .  .  .  black  .  .  .  and  over  yonder, 

The  glow  is  gone  from  all  the  town  thereunder  .  .  . 

And  all  the  people  sleep  .  .  .  and  sleep  .  .  .  and  sleep.1 

1  (You  cringe  and  shrink?  — 
It  makes  your  own  eyes  in  their  sockets  ache?  — 
O  squeamish  listener,  but  think 
It's  all  a  midnight  dream,  and  no  one  is  awake; 
And  in  the  morning,  with  the  bobolink, 
We'll  see  together,  you  and  I, 
The  flowers,  the  fields,  the  sun,  the  sky, 
And  the  magnolia  blossoms,  white  and  pink.) 


[26] 


Leo  Frank 


AT  last  ye  got  him ;  there  he  swings 

Above  the  ho\vling  people-kings. 

At  last  ye  got  him ;  he  outstood 

In  innocence  and  hardihood 

The  servile  court,  the  madman's  knife, 

The  wreck  of  name  and  home  and  wife, 

Still  trusting  God  would  see  him  through. 

At  last  ye  got  him  in  the  night, 

Sick,  wounded,  worn,  and  strangely  white- 

Your  burgher,  Leo  Frank,  the  Jew. 

Ye  hanged  him  on  the  gallows-tree. 
He'll  hang  for  all  the  years  to  be ; 
Ye  nor  your  children  shall  have  power 
To  take  him  down  a  single  hour; 
Nor  wind,  nor  rain,  nor  bird  of  prey, 
Shall  eat  that  awful  Form  away, 
Nor  God  once  veil  it  from  your  view: 
For  'tis  no  human  head  and  limb  — 
Ye  hanged  God's  Justice,  hanging  him, 
Your  burgher,  Leo  Frank,  the  Jew. 


[27] 


A  War-Movie 

The  posters  at  the  Movie-door  seemed  to  say: 
'  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  right  this  way! 
A  jazzy  tune  with  a  bangorine. 
And  a  classy  film  on  a  three-reel  screen. 
Primed  with  pep  and  with  U.  S.  A.!  — 
Ladies  and  gentlemen,  right  this  way!* 

As  a  student  of  popular  art  and  fun, 
I  stepped  into  darkness  and  saw 

REEL   ONE 

At  Jackson  Corners,  on  Lincoln  Highway, 
Down  there  in  God's  own  Country,  "  I  'way," 
Under  the  apple-trees,  behind  the  pickets, 
In  the  rank  quack-grass  and  the  sumach  thickets 
And  the  black-eyed  susans  and  the  solomon  seals, 
Is  a  yard  with  the  craziest  junk  on  wheels: 
Dead  Man's  rusted,  rotted  swappings  .  .  . 
Battered  hayricks  with  cradles  sprung; 
Gravel-carts  with  splintered  tongue ; 
Buggies  with  wind-rent  window-trappings, 
And  the  horse-hair  stuffing  sticking  through 
The  mildewed  seats  of  faded  blue; 
Sagging  phaetons,  cracked  to  the  ribs, 
With  the  lamps  by  the  dash-board  both  askew; 
Milk-wagons  mouldly  as  old  corn-cribs, 
Their  whipple-trees  pivoted  half-way  round 
Between  the  shafts  still  propped  from  the  ground. 
One  had  a  rain-speckled  board  for  a  prop, 

[28] 


With  a  handicraft  sign,  still  to  be  read, 

When  the  sun  shone  in,  if  you  stood  on  your  head: 

WILHELM  SCHNEIDER  —  BLACKSMITH  SHOP.  .  .  . 

(A  "  fade-in  "  here  and  the  first  "  close-up.")   .  .  . 

Springs  and  fenders  of  gaunt  gray  gigs, 

Fifty  grave-yard  skeleton  rigs, 

Fit  to  join  in  a  Dance  of  Death 

With  the  horses  that  pulled  and  the  farmers  that  whoa'd 

(Hear  the  squeaking  of  their  joints  in  jigs 

Till  the  Man  in  the  Moon  seems  holding  his  breath), 

All  dead  together  —  bone,  hide,  and  steel  — 

Derelicts  all  of  the  Open  Road 

Before  the  morning  of  the  Automobile.  .  .  . 

Grease-less  axles,  hub-split  spokes, 

Nevermore  to  be  auctioned  hence  .  .  . 

Under  gnarled  apple-trees  big  as  oaks, 

Behind  the  palings  of  a  paint-peeled  fence. 

But  off  one  side, 

Nearer  the  tangled  arbor  and  sunk  gate 

And  the  stone  hut  where  Schneider  worked  and  died  — 

Shop,  shed,  and  shanty  merged  on  one  estate  — 

There  stands  a  Vehicle  four-square  in  pride 

That  must  be  duly  eyed, 

As  something  full  of  fate: 

Four  tow  wide-fellied  gorgeous  wheels, 

Gilded  except  for  where  the  gilding  peels, 

Or  seems  to  crock, 

Bearing  a  box  barred  with  an  upright  grate, 

And  gilded  cornices  of  unicorns  and  eels, 

And  rearing  griffins  four  of  barbed  heels, 

Though  here  and  there  the  plaster's  had  a  knock  — 

[29] 


It's  a  piece  of  Circus  rolling-stock.  .  .  . 

That  day  the  village  was  in  luck 

When  the  Panther  bit  the  Clown 

And  they  left  the  hoodooed  cage  upon  the  town, 

Off  there  among  the  Widow  Schneider's  truck.  .  .  . 

And  on  the  Fourth  the  youngsters,  taught 
The  Truths  for  which  the  Fathers  fought, 
Haul  it  away  with  a  tackle  in  a  span, 
While  the  old  woman  screams  and  throws  a  pan, 
As  they  trample  her  half-dried  petticoats.  .  .  . 

—  (Presto,  change!)  —  It's  one  of  the  Floats, 

Along  with  Cornwallis  delivering  his  sword, 

And  along  with  the  Gold-dust  Twins  in  a  Ford. 

Behind  the  bars  where  the  panther  bled 

There's  a  stuffed  five-legged  Calf  instead. 

(We  read  that  he's  stuffed  and  we  see  that  he's  dead.) 

So  round  the  street  where  the  Circus  went, 

Past  the  Store  and  the  Bank  and  the  Shop-f or-rent  I 

(See  the  Cadaver  in  the  "  close-up  "  wobble! 

Hear  the  Orchestra  going  it  double!) 

As  often  with  me,  I  didn't  get  the  clue; 
So  I  sat  in  the  darkness  to  see 


REEL   TWO 

At  Jackson  Corners,  on  Lincoln  Highway, 
Down  there  in  God's  own  Country,  "  I'way," 
By  the  yard  with  the  cage,  in  the  hut  of  stone, 
By  the  yard  with  the  skeleton  rigs  alone, 

[30] 


Lived  the  leathery,  calico  Schneider  crone 

(As  Reel  Number  One  had  purposely  shown), 

With  the  junk  that  her  husband  used  to  own.  .  .  . 

Ever  since  the  couple  emigrated  here, 

Jackson  Corners  pronounced  them  "  queer  "... 

And  she  pounded  her  mop  with  a  bony  clutch 

And  scolded  her  dog  in  German-Dutch  .  .  . 

And  the  son  of  her  brother's  son  was  a  Hun 

Who  burnt  down  Paris  with  a  big  squirt-gun 

(If  the  Minister's  sermon  was  true  at  all), 

And  crucified  the  gargoyles  at  Verdun 

(As    the    four-minute    Speaker   seemed    to    hint    in    the 

Hall)  .  .  . 

Each  week  to  the  tin  box  nailed  on  the  tree 
She'd  hobble  for  her  Zeitung  at  the  R.  F.  D., 
And  read  till  sunset  on  her  rag  door-mat  — 
Until  the  Governor  stopped  all  that! 
And  she  used  to  get  letters  (the  Postmistress  said) 
With  the  Kaiser's  phiz  on  stamps  pink-red, 
Where  he  bragged  of  his  devilish  deeds,  did  he 
(As  whispered  the  Ladies  at  the  Red  Cross  Bee)  — 
This  son  of  her  brother's  son,  the  swine! 
And  nights  in  the  yard,  with  a  jerk  in  her  spine 
(As  whispered  the  Children  who'd  stolen  to  see), 
She'd  giggle  on  the  grass  by  the  solomon  seals, 
And  bang  with  a  poker  on  the  wagon-wheels, 
And  gibber  in  a  treble  the  Wacht  am  Rhein, 
And  fiing  up  her  skirts  in  goose-step  reels 
For  the  Hyphenated-Spooks  in  the  wagons  that  sat  — 
Till  the  loyal  folk  of  "  I'way  "  stopped  all  that! 
And  the  day  when  the  country  went  to  war, 
They  heard  her  muttering  in  the  General  Store 

[31] 


At  "  Woodrow  Wilson,"  the  maltese  cat! 
All  this  and  the  Bonds  that  she  didn't  buy 
Made  Jackson  Corners  swear:  "We'll  get  her! 
Couldn't  afford  it !  —  a  yellow  lie ! 
Couldn't  afford  it!  — well,  she'd  better!" 
Here  is  a  "  close-up  "  of  her  face  — 
Almost  the  Kaiser  in  a  harpy  grimace. 
(See  it  a  moment  in  the  spot-light  glow! 
Hear  the  Orchestra  banging  below!) 

This  sort  of  movie  depresses  me, 
But  I  sat  in  the  darkness  to  watch 


REEL  THREE 

At  Jackson  Corners,  on  Lincoln  Highway, 

Down  there  in  God's  own  Country,  "  Fway," 

The  gilded  Circus-Cage 

Again  is  in  the  center  of  the  stage; 

And  in  the  center  now  of  it 

There  glowers  at  the  human  race 

Behind  the  bars  in  baffled  fury-fit, 

Not  Panther  or  stuffed  Calf  in  place, 

But  old  crone  Schneider's  traitor-face! 

(See  her  Eyes  in  the  "  close-up  "  pop! 

Hear  the  Orchestra  whooping  it  up!) 

And  now  her  ride  begins.  .  .  . 

The  Sheriff  and  the  Deacon  lead  the  jam, 

On  either  side  the  rope  like  twins, 

Each  dressed  in  bunting  as  an  Uncle  Sam. 

[32] 


(Side  by  side  in  the  "  close-up  "  see 

Each  patriot  pulling  his  own  goatee!) 

They  cross  the  culvert,  they  leave  the  by-way ; 

The  cage  rides  well  down  Lincoln  Highway  — 

Down  where  rattled  "  in  the  days  gone  by  " 

The  rigs  old  Schneider  swapped  and  hoarded.  .  .  . 

Down  Lincoln  Highway  the  cage  rides  well. 

At  the  District  School  it  halts  a  spell ! 

("  Cut-in  "  here:     "  SHE  COULDN'T  AFFORD  IT.") 

See  her  shaking  her  fist  —  the  spy! 

See  the  youngsters  wave  and  yell ! 

Do\vn  Lincoln  Highway  into  town, 

And  "  the  Business  Section,"  down,  down,  down, — 

(See  how  she  wriggles  her  lips  to  speak!)  — 

Past  the  Store  and  the  Bank  and  the  Shop-for-rent  — 

Each  window  labeled  with  a  100%  — 

Where  Circus  Parade  and  Home-floats  went. 

("  Flash-back"  here  of  the  five-legg'd  Freak.)  .  .  . 

Till  at  the  P.  O.  ends  their  route, 

And  they  open  the  cage  and  drag  her  out  — 

Make  her  pull  on  the  flag-staff  rope, 

Till  the  flag  comes  down  and  her  fingers  grope 

For  the  Stars  and  Stripes  she  was  said  to  hiss  — 

Make  her  print  the  same  with  a  kiss, 

And  hoist  it  up  to  the  sky  once  more.  .  .  . 

So  Jackson  Corners  helps  win  the  war! 

(See  the  Flag  in  the  "  close-up  "  glow! 

Hear  the  Orchestra  banging  below!)   .  .  . 

"  Clear  the  seats  for  the  second  show!  "  .  .  . 

•  •••••«• 

[33] 


The  next  week's  offering  was  the  "  Beast  of  Berlin/' 

And  my  townsfolk  took  the  message  in: 

They  caught  Gretel  Meyer  on  her  porch  asleep, 

And  rolled  her  on  a  truck  in  a  crate  for  sheep. 

The  action  was  denounced  by  a  certain  sett 

But  the  Courts  haven  t  bothered  with  the  case  as  yet.1 

1  The  tale  above  is  based  on  the  notorious  case  in  Evansville, 
Wisconsin,  with  reminiscences  of  certain  "patriotic"  activities 
down  in  Iowa, —  and  elsewhere. 


[34] 


II     By  Court  and  Decree 

THE  HERETICS 

THE  BASTILLE 

TOM  MOONEY 

THE  OLD  AGITATOR 

THE  GREAT  GOD  MUM 


The  Heretics 

A  ROW  of  bearded  fellows  .  .  .  four  .  .  . 
In  hand-cuffs  .  .  .  chained  to  an  iron  bar  .  .  . 
Their  bare  feet  straining  to  the  slimy  floor  .  .  . 
Stripped  to  their  ragged  underwear  .  .  . 
Their  bruises  not  yet  hardened  to  a  scar  .  .  . 
Four  bearded  chins  upon  four  breasts  in  prayer. 

The  twilight  made  by  one  high  oblong's  dim 

On  him  .  .  .  and  him  .  .  .  and  him  .  .  .  and  him. 

Perhaps  no  matter  .  .  .  there's  not  much  to  see  .  .  . 

No  blanket  on  the  cold  and  clammy  bricks.  .  . 

No  bread  ...  no  pitcher  .  .  .  bowl  ...  or  pail  .  .  . 

But  once  in  twenty-four  or  thirty-six 

Slow  hours  of  this  well  conducted  jail, 

The  keepers  come  with  cups  of  water  .  .  .  four  .  .  . 

At  which  each  chained  man  licks  .  .  . 

Come  with  four  crusts  for  jaws  .  .  . 

At  which  each  chained  man  gnaws  .  .  . 

(Chained  man?  .  .  .  chained  dog?!  .  .  .  chained  bear?!) 

Between  the  cursings  .  .  .  clubbings  .  .  .  kicks. 

The  keepers  go  ...  they  climb  the  long  stone  stair  .  .  . 

And  all  below's  the  same  once  more  — 

Four  bearded  chins  upon  four  breasts  in  prayer. 

It  is  a  quiet  place  .  .  . 

Quiet  for  four  ...  or  three  ...  or  two  ...  or  one. 

A  little  moaning  .  .  .  "  Father  "  .  .  .  "  God  "...  "  thy 

face," 

And  ...  "Will  be  done"  .  .  .  "thy  will  be  done!  " 

[37] 


That's  all  ... 

Except  at  times  the  free 

Far  wash  and  rumble  of  the  western  sea 

Against  the  rocks  beside  the  dungeon  wall. 

For  though  the  dank  brine  seep  and  seep  and  seep 

And  crumble  the  mortar  .  .  .  it's  so  silently, 

At  least  when  four  are  standing  in  their  sleep. 

Quiet,  so  quiet,  while  the  thunders  pass, 
And  the  great  winds  of  sunset  sweep 
Over  the  prison-island  Alcatraz. 

Quiet,  so  quiet  .  .  .  where  each  stands, 

Two  hands  strung  up,  beside  two  strung-up  hands  • 

They  do  not  hear 

The  statesmen,  far  and  near, 

In  hills,  and  fields,  and  towns  above, 

Proclaiming  liberty  to  all  the  lands 

And  all  the  inhabitants  thereof ! 

No  motion  in  this  damp,  chill  under-air  .  .  . 

A  kind  of  stale  and  stagnant  fog  .  .  . 

For  ages  pent  .  .  . 

The  Spaniards  brought  and  housed  it  there 

Of  old  from  some  Peruvian  bog  .  .  . 

And  now  it's  poisoned  by  such  excrement 

As  hollow  hunger  and  dry  thirst  can  spare 

Of  four  men  in  a  row,  half-spent  — 

Four  bearded  chins  upon  four  breasts  in  prayer. 

Why  bother?  — 

There  has  been  many  another  .  .  . 


For  instance,  Bonnevard  and  brother  .  .  . 
Isaac  of  York  and  sundry  Jews 
Who  got  the  rack  or  screws  .  .  . 
And  Torquemada's  heretics, 
For  dabbling  in  forbidden  tricks, 
Were  put  to  boil  in  Christian  oil, 
Or  roasted  over  consecrated  sticks. 
There  has  been  many  another  — 
Why  bother? 

A  row  of  bearded  fellows  .  .  .  four  .  .  . 
And  all  because 

So  gentle,  and  long-suffering,  and  odd  .  .  . 
They  had  an  understanding  with  their  God  .  .  . 
They  had  the  will  and  strength  to  keep  the  clause  .  .  . 
To  bear  .  .  .  and  bear  .  .  .  and  bear  .  .  .  and  bear  .  .  . 
They  would  not  give  their  bodies  up  to  war  .  .  . 
Four  bearded  chins  on  four  dead  breasts  in  prayer.1 

1 1  owe  an  apology  to  the  authorities  at  Alcatraz  for  this  poetic 
license  —  only  two  of  the  four  are  dead  as  yet,  and  they  died 
only  after  their  broken  bodies  had  been  taken  down  and  shipped 
to  Leavenworth,  where  scurvy  and  pneumonia  finished  the  busi 
ness. 


[39] 


The  Bastille1 

Is  it  much  study  now  has  made  me  mad  ?  — 

That  from  old  tales  of  Indians  and  Kings, 

Prairies  and  parapets  I  conned  as  lad, 

I've  shaped  in  manhood  now  these  shadow-things, 

These  horror-haunted  interplays 

Between  incongruous  Yesterdays 

And  Landscapes  sundered  by  the  seas  in  vain  — 

This  nightmare  of  the  grievous  prisonings, 

Where  the  Missouri  flows  into  the  Seine? 

Where  am  I?  —  whither  borne  afar?  .  .  . 

Orion's  fading  star  by  star; 

Yet  the  Pawnees  are  stealing  up  the  Platte 

To  where  the  two  block-houses  are, 

And  Colonel  Kearney  in  his  army  hat  .  .  . 

And  hostages  all  shackled  to  a  bar, 

Standing  in  a  stone-pit  roofed  from  heaven 

(Seven  hundred  .  .  .  multiplied  from  seven)   .  .  . 

There  is  a  bustle  in  the  grassy  square 

Inside  the  barracks,  under  listless  trees. 

Louis  Tournay,  who'll  soon  give  up  the  keys 

Of  eight  grim  towers,  sits  and  trembles  there  .  .  . 

Cholat,  the  vintner,  is  a  cannoneer 

And  Pawnee  chieftain  on  the  last  frontier; 

Georget,  late  come  from  the  marines  at  Brest, 

Will  hack  the  wooden  shutters  with  the  best ; 

And  crouching  onward,  just  behind  the  mass, 

1  Upon  the  fall  of  the  Bastille,  with  its  grim  guardian  Louis 
Tournay,  its  great  key  became  the  gift  of  Lafayette  to  America; 
Fort  Leavenworth,  on  the  Missouri,  was  in  the  'forties  a  frontier 
army  post  under  Colonel  Kearney. 

[40] 


With  epaulettes  of  golden  braid, 

And  a  familiar  white  cockade 

That  bobs  above  the  prairie  grass  .  .  . 

It's  Lafayette  a-coming  for  the  key 

That  shall  imprison  them  —  and  me ! 

And  unto  Colonel  Kearney  says  Tournay: 

"  Give  up  the  prisoners, —  for  I  long  have  known 

These  wooden  walls  had  turned  to  stone 

Four  hundred  years  ago  to-day  "... 

(Says  Colonel  Kearney,  "  Let  them  groan  ")    .  . 

"  And  by  to-morrow  will  be  clay  "... 

A  prairie  fire  is  blowing  down  the  Seine, 
Upon  Missouri  tumbles  the  Bastille  .  .  . 
Has  the     -.at  war  entirely  crazed  my  brain, 
Or  have  old  books  distorted  all  I  feel  ?  .  .  . 

A  monstrous  iron  key  lies  on  my  breast, 

A  letter  lies  beside  it,  frayed  and  brown: 

"  America  it  was  that  did  break  down 

Those  towers  of  ancient  tyrannies  and  wrongs; 

So,  valiant  Captain  of  the  free-born  West, 

Unto  America  this  key  belongs  " — 

It  is  to  General  Washington  addressed. 


[40 


Tom  Mooney 


TOM  MOONEY  sits  behind  a  grating, 

Beside  a  corridor.      (He's  waiting.) 

Long  since  he  picked  or  peeled  or  bit  away 

The  last  white  callous  from  his  palms,  they  say. 

The  crick  is  gone  from  out  his  back  ; 

And  all  the  grease  and  grime 

Gone  from  each  finger-nail  and  every  knuckle-crack. 

(And  that  took  time.) 

II 

Tom  Mooney  breathes  behind  a  grating, 

Beside  a  corridor.     (He's  waiting.) 

The  Gold-men  from  ten  cities  hear  in  sleep 

Tom  Mooney  breathing  —  for  he  breathes  so  deep. 

The  Gold-men  from  ten  cities  rise  from  bed 

To  make  a  brass  crown  for  Tom  Mooney 's  head ; 

They  gather  round  great  oaken  desks  —  each  twists 

Two  copper  bracelets  for  Tom  Mooney's  wrists. 

And  down  sky-scraper  basements  (all  their  own) 

They  forge  the  spikes  for  his  galvanic  throne. 

The  Gold-men  love  the  jests  of  old  Misrule  — 

At  ease  at  last,  they'll  laugh  their  fill; 

They'll  deck  Tom  Mooney  king,  they  will  — 

King  over  knave  and  fool. 

And  from  enameled  doors  of  rearward  office-vaults, 

Lettered  in  gold  with  names  that  never  crock, 

They  will  draw  back  the  triple  iron  bolts, 

[42] 


Then  scatter  from  the  ridges  of  their  roofs 

The  affidavits  of  their  paper-proofs 

Of  pallid  Tomfool's  low  and  lubber  stock. 


Ill 

Tom  Mooney  thinks  behind  a  grating, 

Beside  a  corridor.     (He's  waiting.) 

(Tom  Mooney  free  was  but  a  laboring  man; 

Tom  Mooney  jailed's  the  Thinker  of  Rodin.) 

The  workers  in  ten  nations  now  have  caught 

The  roll  and  rhythm  of  Tom  Mooney 's  thought  — 

By  that  earth-girdling  S.  O.  S., 

The  subtle  and  immortal  wireless 

Of  Man's  strong  justice  in  distress. 

The  Workers  in  ten  nations  think  and  plan: 

The  pick-ax  little  Naples  man, 

The  rice-swamp  coolies  in  Japan 

(No  longer  mere  embroidery  on  a  screen), 

The  crowds  that  swarm  from  factory  gates, 

At  yellow  dusks  with  all  their  hates, 

In  Ireland,  Austria,  Argentine, 

In  England,  France,  and  Russia  far 

(That  slew  a  Czar), — 

Or  where  the  Teutons  lately  rent 

The  Iron  Cross  (on  finding  what  it  meant) ; 

At  yellow  dusks  with  all  their  hates 

From  fiery  shops  or  gas-choked  mines, 

From  round-house,  mill,  or  lumber-pines, 

In  the  broad  belt  of  these  United  States. 

The  Workers,  like  the  Gold-men,  plan  and  wake, — 

[43] 


What  bodes  their  waking? 

The  Workers,  like  the  Gold-men,  something  make, — 

What  are  they  making?  — 

The  Gold-men  answer  often  — 

"  They  make  Tom  Mooney's  coffin." 


IV 

Tom  Mooney  talks  behind  a  grating, 

Beside  a  corridor.     (He's  waiting.) 

You  cannot  get  quite  near 

Against  the  bars  to  lay  your  ear; 

You  find  the  light  too  dim 

To  spdl  the  lips  of  him. 

But,  like  a  beast's  within  a  zoo 

(That  was  of  old  a  god  to  savage  clans), 

His  body  shakes  at  you  — 

A  beast's,  a  god's,  a  man's! 

And  from  its  ponderous,  ancient  rhythmic  shaking 

Ye'll  guess  what  'tis  the  workers  now  are  making. 

They  make  for  times  to  come 

From  times  of  old  —  how  old !  — 

From  sweat,  from  blood,  from  hunger,  and  from  tears, 

From  scraps  of  hope  (conserved  through  bitter  years 

Despite  the  might  and  mockery  of  gold), 

They  make,  these  haggard  men,  a  bomb, — 

These  haggard  men  with  shawl-wives  dumb 

And  pinched-faced  children  cold, 

Descendants  of  the  oldest,  earth-born  stock, 

Gnarled  brothers  of  the  surf,  the  ice,  the  fire,  the  rock, 

Gray  wolf  and  gaunt  storm-bird. 

[44] 


They  make  a  bomb  more  fierce  than  dynamite, — 

They  weld  a  Word. 

And  on  the  awful  night 

The  Gold-men  set  Tom  Mooney  grinning 

(If  such  an  hour  shall  be  in  truth's  despite) 

They'll  loose  the  places  of  much  underpinning 

In  more  than  ten  big  cities,  left  and  right. 


[45] 


The  Old  Agitator 

So  they  could  do  it  after  all!  ... 
They  locked  him  up  ...  the  good  old  man  .  .  . 
Behind  the  grated  window  and  the  wall  .  .  . 
Stole  in  upon  his  sick-bed  .  .  .  whisked  him  off 
Before  the  rumor  and  the  wrath  began  .  .  . 
Without  one  woodland  flower  of  early  spring 
Pressed  to  his  big  palm  by  some  workman's  child. 

And  said  the  honest  warden,  welcoming: 

"  You're  rather  rangy,  Mr.  Debs,  and  tall  "  .  .  . 

Embarrassed  by  a  momentary  cough  .  .  . 

"  But  we  will  fit  you  out  as  best  we  can  "... 

And  the  great  Proletarian 

He  straightened  up  and  smiled. 

Ten  years  ...  so  let  it  be  ...  he  was  not  wise  . 

Well  shut  he  would  not  ...  could  not  ...  keep 

Those  lips,  close-shorn  and  thin, 

Below  those  keen,  unflinching  eyes, 

And  just  above  the  unbearded  fighting  chin  .  .  . 

Those  lips  with  furrows  either  side,  so  deep 

From  mirth  and  sorrow  and  unresting  sleep  .  .  . 

And  so  they- "deemed  it  fit 

He  learn  (like  Jeremiah)  silence  in  a  pit. 

So  let  it  be  ...  a  state  must  have  firm  laws 

And  watchful  citizens  that  balk 

Against  a  wagging  tongue  .  .  . 

And  one  grown  gray  and  gaunt  with  too  much  talk, 

Who  has  long  since  forgotten  when  to  pause, 

[46] 


Or  how  to  please, 

May  trip  at  last  —  even  in  democracies  .  .  . 

And,  chiefly,  if  he  tamper  with  the  young, 

And  worship  not  the  old  divinities  .  .  . 

And  when  the  charge  is  read  him,  clause  by  clause, 

And  he  replies  with  scanty  penitence, 

He'll  find  (as  found  that  worthy  man 

At  whose  incessant  lips  once  Athens  took  offense) 

The  gentry  of  his  latter  audience 

Most  ominously  niggard  of  applause  .  .  . 

And  though  even  then  he  talk  ...  as  talk  he  can  .  , 

He  lights  (like  Socrates)  on  no  defense  — 

Except  reiteration  of  his  cause. 

So  be  it  .  .  .  his  was  fair  trial  and  due  appeal 

Under  those  just,  majestic  guarantees 

That  give  the  Stars  and  Stripes  their  destinies 

Over  a  free  (but  ordered)  commonweal! 

That  incorruptible  and  austere  court 

Of  old  men  to  this  old  man  made  report: 

They  made  report,  this  row  of  staunch  patricians, 

Unto  the  bald  lone  tall  man  of  the  plebs; 

They  bore  no  grudge,  they  took  no  gold, 

They  may  have  loved  him  —  for  they  too  were  old ; 

But,  seated  in  their  ancient  nine  position", 

They  sealed  the  prison  sunset-years  for  Debs  — 

As  vindicators  of  those  stern  traditions 

That  tore  from  black  Dred  Scott  his  freeman's  shirt, 

And  locked  free  child  in  factory  dark  and  dirt. 

So  let  it  be  ...  there's  nothing  for  surprise  .  .  . 
The  thing's  so  old  ...  so  wearisomely  grim  .  .  . 

[47] 


Nothing  for  grief  .  .  .  except  the  shame  . 
Grieve  for  the  nation,  not  for  him  .  .  . 
For  he  has  but  begun  his  enterprise, 
And  in  this  silence  finds  the  lips  of  flame. 


[48] 


The  Great  God  Mum 

NEAR  a  gold  temple  in  Tibet's  mountain  pass 

Where  Pro-Paganda  with  her  hundred  ears, 

Her  hundred  wings,  her  hundred  tongues  of  brass, 

Has  throned  above  a  People  five  mad  years, 

Served  by  a  mouthy  Priesthood,  belching  cheers, 

Intoning  lies,  and  banging  on  a  drum, 

Stands  the  steel  temple  of  the  Great  God  Mum. 

Forever  in  the  shadow  of  the  rock, 
In  subterranean  fumes,  that  temple  stands: 
The  Idol's  less  a  Sphinx-head,  more  mere  block, 
With  half-carved  lips,  and  fingers  without  hands, 
Both  lips  and  fingers  clamped  with  iron  bands, 
But  its  two  eyes  are  symbols  of  distress  — 
Immortal  Vision,  immortal  Speechlessness. 

Amid  the  fumes  and  shadows  at  its  feet 

(If  those  be  feet  where  trunk  abuts  on  toe), 

The  muffled  worshipers  may  never  greet  .  .  . 

The  rite  is  simple:  enter,  kneel,  and  go, 

Mantling  your  portion  of  the  Idol's  woe. 

The  stillness,  by  decree,  is  so  profound 

Even  Pro-Paganda's  din  feels  more  like  pain  than  sound. 

Among  the  worshipers,  whose  faith  is  fear, 
Whose  prayer  itself  is  silence  (foot  and  lip), 
Mix  hunch-back  Ministrants  now  there,  now  here, 
To  listen  well  and  touch  with  secret  whip. 
O,  these  be  active  in  their  stewardship !  — 
And  many  a  cowering  neophyte  they  seize 
For  gurgle,  murmur,  knuckle-crack,  or  sneeze. 

[49] 


And  with  the  Hunch-backs,  stealthier  than  they, 
Mingle  those  Velvet-footed  Yellow-ones, 
Who,  entering  with  the  Fearful  as  to  pray, 
In  all  like  them  appareled  for  the  nonce, 
Trap  sullen  Dreamer  or  unwary -Dunce 
Into  some  parlous  whisper,  and  then  cite  — 
For  public  glory,  or  for  private  spite. 

Of  those  who  err  what  may  at  last  become? 
The  few  that  know,  know  too  they  may  not  tell, 
For  sacrilege  against  the  Great  God  Mum  ; 
Though  hosts  are  haunted  by  the  Vision-spell 
Of  one  old  Talker  in  a  ten-years'  cell.  .  .  . 
So  Mystery  gives  Terror  new  control, 
'Neath  the  Grand  Lama,  that  pot-bellied  Soul. 

The  folk  is  plagued  for  its  Idolatries: 
Between  two  Idols  is  its  fate  fulfilled  — 
Crazed  by  the  Goddess  of  the  Thousand  Lies, 
And  by  the  God  of  Silence  imbecilled: 
Yet  if  the  fall  of  Great  God  Mum  were  willed 
With  half  the  noise  of  Pro-Paganda's  crew, 
That  unclean  Goddess  would  be  shattered  too. 


Ill     March  and  Dance 

(Two  new  songs  to  one  old  tune) 

AS  I  LISTENED  BY  THE  LILACS 
THE  PIED  PIPER 


As  I  Listened  by  the  Lilacs  l 

(The  Unseen  A.  E.  F.  .  .  .  as  it  might  have  been) 

As  I  listened  by  the  lilacs  to  the  thrush  this  spring, 

The  good  gray  poet  said  another  thing : 
The  great  bell  peals,  and  the  great  ships  wait, 
And  my  Captain  and  my  comrades  filing  through  the 
gate. 

The  good  gray  poet,  back  from  the  sea 

With  battle-rent  banner,  whispered  me: 

Filing  down  the  wharves  with  noiseless  feet, 
Filing  under  moon  from  a  long,  long  street 
(A  long,  long  street  with  fork  and  bend, 
And  mountain  sunsets  at  the  further  end)  : 
Shovel-hatted  Puritans  with  funnel-mouth  guns; 
Eagle-feather  crested  bowmen  bronze; 
Buck-skin  trappers,  fringed  to  the  thighs, 
With  beaver-caps  frayed  over  buffalo  eyes; 
Oregon  Trailers,  sons  and  sires, 
With  gun-stocks  charred  by  the  prairie  fires; 
Grizzled  Forty-niners,  with  picks  and  barrows; 
Log-cabin  folk  with  home-made  harrows; 
Lasso  boys  from  the  ranch-frontiers; 
And  girl-cornhuskers  of  the  pioneers  .  .  . 
Filing  under  moon  from  a  long,  long  street, 
Tramp,  tramp,  tramp  —  to  the  great  sea-fleet. 

1  Reminiscences  of  the  three  motifs  of  Walt  Whitman's  noc 
turne  on  the  death  of  Lincoln  —  the  twilight  April  star,  the  lilac 
bush,  and  the  song  of  the  thrush  —  are  combined  with  a  rem 
iniscence  of  the  same  good  gray  poet's  other  tribute  to  Lincoln, 
"  O  Captain  !  My  Captain !  " 

[53] 


As  I  listened  in  the  twilight,  after  the  rain, 

The  good  gray  poet  said  again: 

Filing  down  the  piers,  over  waters  black, 

Filing  through  the  gate  from  a  long  bivouac 

(A  long  bivouac  by  the  stream  and  the  hill, 

And  the  low  white  stars  and  the  whip-poor-will) : 

Minute-men  with  eyelids  damp  from  sleep; 

Valley  Forge  men  who  limp  and  creep ; 

Yorktown  men,  and  Lafayette  men, 

And  Red  Coats  girt  with  their  swords  again; 

And  the  great  Sphinx-head  with  lips  so  tight, 

With  criss-cross  belt,  on  a  war-horse  white. 

And  I  saw  John  Brown, —  and  the  rice-swamp  blacks 

Mopping  the  sweat  with  bandanas  from  their  backs. 

And  I  saw  Marshal  Grant  —  who  but  he !  — - 

And  Pickett  and  his  men  who  charged  for  Lee; 

And  the  blue  and  the  gray  and  the  gray  and  the  blue 

(Blent  by  the  years  to  an  olive  hue)  ; 

And  Schurz  and  his  burghers  with  mud-spattered  coats, 

Banded  with  bunting,  sobs  in  throats  .  .  . 

From  a  long  bivouac,  filing  to  the  tide  — 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp  —  where  the  big  boats  ride. 

As  I  listened  in  the  fragrance  of  my  door-yard  plat, 
Said  the  good  gray  poet,  in  his  army-hat: 

Marching  under  moon,  between  long  aisles 

Of  the  dim  dank  heads  of  the  creaking  piles ; 

Marching  in  the  mists  to  the  eery  deep, 

Out  of  the  hinterlands  of  old  sleep : 

Shadowy  bulks,  primeval  births, 

Witch-wild  wonders  (ours  and  earth's)  ; 

I  saw  gnarled  shapes  of  Oaks  afoot, 

[54] 


With  leafy  arms  and  sprawling  root; 
And  wrinkle-skinned  trunks  of  Elms  and  Pines, 
With  savage  girdles  of  torn  woodbines 
(And  elfin  bands  I  saw  between, 
Midnight  dewed  and  moony-green  — 
Bands  of  the  Wild-rose  trooped  and  trod, 
And  the  Maidenhair  and  the  Goldenrod)  ; 
And  the  Father-of-Waters,  within  his  hands 
From  many  a  stream  wet  willow-wands ; 
And  the  bald  Crag-heads,  with  a  mountain  pace, 
In  their  cloudy  midst  the  Great  Stone  Face; 
And  the  Manitou-rocks  with  painted  side, 
Capped  by  the  snows  of  the  Great  Divide  .  .  . 
Out  of  the  hinterlands  of  old  sleep, 
Marching  under  moon  to  the  edge  of  the  deep, 
Marching  in  the  sea-mist  (phantoms?  no!)  — 
Tramp,  tramp,  tramp  —  to  the  ships  below. 

The  good  gray  poet  of  things  that  are 
Whispered  by  the  lilacs  under  one  moist  star: 
Singing  in  the  night,  past  towers  and  tiers, 
Singing  through  the  gate  and  down  the  piers: 
Memorial  voices,  profiles  known, 
From  north  and  south,  from  east  and  west, 
Prophet  figures,  higher  than  the  rest, 
Like  wraiths  of  statues,  bronze  and  stone: 
Knee-buckled  Franklin,  with  bony  wrist 
And  faggots  of  the  lightning  bunched  in  fist; 
Lithe  as  the  west-wind,  calm  as  the  sun, 
Peering  down  the  moonglade,  Emerson 
(Peering  down  an  alley,  out  to  sea, 
Where  the  transports  leave  his  vision  free)  ; 

[55] 


And  bearded  Bryant,  as  cloaked  for  the  rain, 
And  the  lion-head  of  good  Mark  Twain; 
And  midst  a  hundred,  with  strange  awe 
In  a  garland  of  grass  myself  I  saw  ; 
All  singing  in  the  night  to  one  low  tune  — 
Tramp,  tramp,  tramp  —  in  the  April  moon : 
"  MY  CAPTAIN  LEANS  BY  THE  GANGWAY  SIDE, 
AWAITING  us  AND  THE  TURNING  TIDE  — 

WlTH  BENDED  HEAD  AND  ARMS  ON  BREAST, 

AWAITING  us  FOR  THE  GREAT  SEA-QUEST." 

West  of  Chicago, 
April,  1918. 


[56] 


The  Pied  Piper 

"  Never  before  have  four  hundred  million  rats  followed  the 
lure  of  the  shrill  pipe  of  the  rat-catcher."  Nicolai,  Biology  of 
War. 

THE  huge  Pied  Piper,  in  a  giant  dance, 
Began  his  piping  on  the  fields  of  France. 
The  huge  Pied  Piper,  with  a  fife  of  steel, 
Danced  through  the  nations,  toe  and  heel. 
Four  crazed  years,  under  winds  and  the  moon, 
The  Millions  followed  in  a  jigging  rigadoon. 

For  his  legs  were  hosed  in  striped  bands, 
And  his  sleeves  were  striped  to  the  fingering  hands, 
And  his  cape  was  striped  to  his  piping  throat, 
And  the  striped  cap  fluttered  to  step  and  note  .  .  . 
Stripes  up  and  down,  and  left  and  right  .  .  . 
Red,  green,  yellow,  black,  blue,  white  .  .  . 
Speckled  between  with  star  and  crest  — 
But  the  red  stripes  O !  they  outnumbered  the  rest. 
And  when  failed  the  lure  of  his  garments  pied, 
He  juggled  new  bunting  from  his  vest  inside. 
So  four  crazed  years,  under  winds  and  the  moon, 
The  Millions  followed  in  a  jigging  rigadoon. 

With  a  fife  of  steel  to  puckered  lips, 
And  two  cheeks  puffing  for  his  finger-tips, 
He  shrilled  each  tune  of  the  lure  of  war, 
And  danced  each  measure  of  his  repertoire: 
He  piped  and  he  jigged  of  fear  and  hate, 
Of  love  of  country  and  glory  of  state; 
And  he  piped  of  God  and  he  piped  of  man  — 

[57] 


This  giant  Jester,  this  Charlatan. 

And  for  those  who  loathed  his  piping  shrill 

He  piped  a  tune  more  alluring  still: 

"  Then  hurry  to  my  piping,  more  than  ever, 

To  end  my  piping  now  or  never!  " 

And  four  crazed  years,  under  winds  and  the  moon, 

The  Millions  followed  in  a  jigging  rigadoon. 

And  the  few  still  slack,  as  he  flung  pied  cape, 
And  the  few  still  slack,  as  he  piped  his  jape, 
O  the  few  still  slack,  as  each  million  reels 
Jigging  to  the  river,  behind  his  heels, 
They  whipped  or  they  hanged  to  bar  or  tree, 
And  passed  with  the  piper  down  the  lea  ... 

To  a  red,  red  river,  all  the  host, — 

And  the  Piper  walked,  like  a  shadow  or  ghost  .  .  . 

And  the  Piper  walked,  like  Christ  on  the  sea 

In  the  sunset-storm  of  Galilee  .  .  . 

And  he  danced  on  the  waters,  to  his  latest  tune, 

And  the  Millions  perished  in  a  jigging  rigadoon. 


[58] 


IV     Piston-Rod  and  Belted-Wheel 


THE  TRAIN 
THE  SHOPS 


The  Train 

ACROSS  my  window  bars, 

Across  the  twilight  swamp  beyond  the  lake, 

Moves  like  a  caravan  or  glimmering  snake 

(With  syren  whistle  on  the  evening  air 

Out  to  the  low  mists  and  the  first  high  stars 

And  crossroads  brown  and  bare), — 

Moves  on  from  woods  to  woods  the  train  of  cars. 


Are  those  her  own  lights  in  a  fiery  line? 
Or  does  the  great  sun  still 
Through  some  deep  hollow  of  a  western  hill 
Upon  her  far  panes  shine? 

A  train  so  often  touches  me  with  wonder  .  .  . 

She  comes  from  mighty  places  of  the  earth, 

With  canyons  and  black  waters  under; 

She  crawled  up  mountains,  and  she  leapt  the  firth ; 

She  skirted  cataracts,  with  her  own  thunder. 

She  plunged  into  the  regions  of  the  rain 

That  crossed  her  iron  course, 

And  in  an  hour  out  she  fared  again 

With  nothing  lost  of  all  her  flame  and  force. 

She  cut  through  ice-age  and  moraine, 

Round  bends  of  blasted  outcrop  autumn-vined, 

Through  limestone  tunnels  of  the  paleozoic, 

Then  puffed  her  clouds  to  clouds  above  the  plain, 

In  overplus  of  all  her  stress  and  strain, 

Unconscious,  blind  — 

[61] 


And  yet  a  thing  heroic 

With  her  long  wails,  like  triumph  over  pain. 

What  monsters  of  the  elder  earth 

With  sagging  bellies  of  tremendous  girth 

Traversed  such  rolling  spaces  far?  — 

And  yet  the  forces  of  her  moving  are 

Of  still  more  ancient  birth: 

Not  sluggish  feed  of  oozy  fern  and  grass, 

But  sun's  own  fire  and  cosmic  steam  and  gas. 

She  came  from  mighty  places,  and  she  goes 
(Far  from  my  window  here  and  me), 
Whatever  lightning  flares  or  tempest  blows, 
On  to  the  mightiest  the  round  earth  knows  — 
Head  onward  to  the  sea : 

Past  orchards,  of  their  apples  shorn 

(Empty  of  all  but  of  the  robin's  empty  nest) , 

Ponds,  pastures,  quarries,  and  sawn  stumps  of  trees, 

Or  where  the  stacks  of  tented  corn 

Upon  the  stubble  prairie  rest 

Like  rows  of  Indian  old  tepees. 

Past  more  than  these: 
Past  the  coke-ovens  burning  into  morn, 
And  the  long  houses  of  the  factories ; 
Past  the  suburban  marshes  and  gray  dumps, 
And  scraggly  willow  clumps, 
Past  picture-boards  with  their  grotesqueries  -*- 
Their  lettered  lure  of  promised  hopes  — 
Cigars,  cathartics,  soaps, — 
[6a] 


Past  here  and  there  a  college  on  a  hill, 
And  the  white  cupolas  for  telescopes. 

Things  man  has  done  or  will. 

These  will  she  pass  or  has  already  passed, 

To  come  at  last, 

The  dust  and  soot  upon  her  plates  and  shards, 

With  shriek  and  clanging  bell, 

With  puff-balls  from  reverberant  pulsations, 

Into  the  midnight  coruscations 

Of  the  Yards  — 

Where  end  the  rails  she  rode  so  long  and  well, 

In  caverned  spots  of  green  and  white  and  red, 

And  blotches  of  huge  shadows,  quick  or  dead, 

And  thousand  shimmering  wires  criscross  overhead, 

And  poles  with  zigzag  arm  or  horizontal  spar. 

Here  her  prodigious  sisters  are  ... 

And  from  her  sides  she  belches  then, 

By  hundreds,  men  —  and  men  —  and  men, 

With  empires  in  the  brain, 

Empires  of  gold,  of  sword,  of  voice,  of  pen, 

Of  love  or  heresy  or  hate, — 

The  which,  expanding  in  the  rhythmic  sway 

Of  her  large  motions  through  the  night  and  day, 

The  continental  train 

Herself  did  half,  or  more  than  half,  create! 


[63] 


The  Shops 

A  BOY,  I'd  cycle  with  my  thoughts  for  friend, 
Lured  to  the  distant  factories  at  town's-end  .  .  . 
Out  where  the  chugging  tractor  patched  the  road 
Before  you  cross  the  river  at  the  bend. 

Those  houses  .  .  .  they  were  long  and  red  and  low, 
With  endless  windows,  all  one  barren  row  .  .  . 
And  sometimes  there  would  be,  I  think,  in  each 
A  bended  head  with  neither  nod  nor  speech  ; 
And  sometimes  pallid  profiles,  to  and  fro; 
And  sometimes  windows,  even  in  the  day, 
All  lighted  with  a  lurid  inner  glow 
That  swept  the  pallid  profiles  quite  away.  .  .  . 

Inside  the  whirring  halls  and  windowed  wings, 
One  afternoon  I  saw  the  awful  things, — 
And  touched  the  men  who  didn't  seem  afraid, 
Whatever  flared,  or  swung,  or  whirled,  or  roared  .  .  . 

Those  houses  .  .  .  not  like  houses  in  our  ward  .  .  . 

A  sense  of  Something  mighty  being  made 

That  must  have  been  begun  so  long  ago  .  .  . 

I  thought  it  would  be  big  enough  when  done  .  .  . 

Some  parts  perhaps  were  ready  down  below  .  .  . 

To  heave  up  half  our  highways  in  the  sun 

And  lay  us  others,  terrible  and  new, 

To  other  places,  known  as  yet  to  none  .  .  . 

To-day  some  older  persons  think  so  too. 

[64] 


V     Deep  Sea  and  High  Hill 

SALVAGE  OF  THE  SEA 

THE  MOUNTAIN  OF  SKULLS 


Salvage  of  the  Sea 

I 

THE  sun  comes  forth 

Over  the  Giants'  Causeway  and  the  main, 

The  winds  blow  south  and  north, 

The  tides  still  take  the  starlight  and  the  rain; 

And  now  ride  home  the  ships  of  war, 

And  ships  of  salvage  now  ride  out  again. 

Peace  sweeps  all  waters  that  the  battle  swept. 

The  deep  with  old  indifference  has  kept 

And  with  the  same  indifference  will  restore. 


II 

I've  marked  the  divers  down  the  sea, 

Plying  about  each  tilted  hull  their  tasks.  .  .  . 

They  gleam  in  armor  (though  it  clank  not  here)  ; 

They  shake  their  heads  in  bulbous  ribbed  casques 

With  tanks  (like  knapsacks)  on  their  shoulder-blades; 

And  peer,  or  seem  to  peer, 

From  monstrous  mouthless  goggle-masks: 

And  they  become  to  me 

(Down  in  these  yellow-glaring  everglades) 

Like  ghostly  vagrants,  reft  of  gun  or  spear, 

Stra)red  from  those  multitudes  of  warrior-shades 

Dead  before  Jesus  —  or  but  yesteryear. 


[67] 


Ill 

I  see  the  hoisted  hulls,  between  huge  backs 

Of  wave-washed  cylinders  like  floating  stacks.  .  .  . 

In  one  long  line  they're  sailing  down  the  blue 

Into  the  roads,  for  salvo  and  review.  .  .  . 

And  Enterprise  on  tiptoe  strains  her  hundred  necks. 

To  her  no  foundered  derelicts  are  these: 

But  the  great  argosies. 


IV 

I  see  the  salvage  on  a  long,  long  quay: 

The  bars  of  bullion-gold  re-won 

(From  which  all  wars  begin,  we  say)  ; 

The  grain  up-heaped  and  dried 

(The  mouths  for  which  'twas  reaped  have  died)  ; 

The  sword,  the  knife,  the  cartridge-belt,  the  gun 

(But  wherefore ?  —  now  that  wars,  we  know,  are  done)  ; 

The  corpses,  uniformed  in  drab  or  gray, 

Or  silks,  or  swaddling-clout 

(Has  Enterprise  the  hands  to  lay  them  out, 

Or  has  the  glutted  earth  still  room  to-day, 

Or  will  they  speak,  revisiting  the  sun?).  .  .  . 

I  see  the  salvage  and  I  turn  away. 


The  ships  of  salvage  bring  not  back  to  me 
Aught  that  I  wished  might  be  — 
They  bring  not  back  from  the  eternal  deep 
[68] 


The  things  whereof  our  wisest  prophets  spoke: 

Nor  ocean-vision  winnowed  of  all  smoke, 

Nor  sea-redemption  of  mankind's  lost  sleep, — 

Nor  one  green  weed  they  bring 

As  sea-bright  garmenting 

For  the  white  body  of  gaunt  Victory 

Lying  in  terror  on  the  barren  steep. 


[69] 


The  Mountain  of  Skulls 

I 

ALL  guns  are  silent  ..."  I  have  won,"  he  saith, 
And  girds  his  ample  cloak  .  .  . 
He  .  .  .  who?  .  .  .  Not  Pershing,  Haig,  or  Foch?! 
"  Old  Hindenburg?"  some  jokester  whispereth 
(For  when  we  win,  we  joke).  .  .  . 

He  .  .  .  who?  .  .  .  The  great  King,  DEATH. 

And  in  the  quiet  of  the  armistice 
He  takes  a  long,  long  journey  in  his  mirth 
(No  Marshal  takes  a  furlough  such  as  this) 
Through  many  lands  of  earth  .  .  . 

Gathering  the  skulls  .  .  . 

To  Archangel  among  the  Arctic  gulls  .  .  . 

By  Kiao-chow's  eagle-dedicated  rocks  .  .  . 

Along  the  Tigris  on  to  Bagdad  gate  .  .  . 

The  Syrian  foothills  and  old  temple  blocks  .  .  . 

By  palm  and  date  .  .  . 

And  desert  .  .  .  and  the  mud-flats  of  the  Nile  .  .  . 

Pylons  and  papyrus  reeds  .  .  . 

And  Tanganika's  swamps  and  jungle  weeds, 

And  tropic-leaves,  green-glazed  as  tile  .  .  . 

And  back  .  .  .  gleaning  in  holes  of  shells, 

Or  in  mired  cartwheels,  or  in  poisoned  wells  .  .  . 

Back  ...  he  goes  .  .  .  and  goes  .  .  . 

To  the  rent  sand-spits  of  the  Dardanelles  .  .  . 

And  gaunt  Armenian  plateaus  .  .  . 

[70] 


Gathering  the  skulls  .  .  . 

In  the  Carpathian  snows  .  .  . 

On  Alpine  crags  .  .  .  and  under  each  crevasse  .  .  . 

(He  digs  and  pulls 

For,  where  they  fell,  straightway  they  froze)    .  .  . 

In  the  Masurian  morass 

(Battalion  by  battalion  in  stark  rows)    .  .  . 

And  Serbia's  oaken  mountain  pass  .  .  . 

And  Flanders'  poppy  fields  .  .  .  (again  .  .  .  again)  . 

(Loosening  from  wire,  tearing  masks  away, 

Dragging  from  skeleton  airplanes  in  burnt  grass)   .  . 

And  Marne  and  forests  of  Ardennes  .  .  . 

And  roofless  villages,  all  one  Pompeii  .  .  . 

Gathering  the  skulls  .  .  . 

Down  the  Atlantic  deeps  .  .  .  and  shallows  .  .  . 

The  mid-abyss  ...  the  continental  shelf  .  .  . 

Forgetting  child-bed,  hospital,  and  gallows, 

To  fetch  the  rest  he  does  betake  himself  .  .  . 

Although  for  these 

He  pries  out  many  a  port-hole,  many  a  hatch, 

Before  he  culls 

From  strangled  necks  upon  the  hunched  knees  .  .  . 

By  Falkland  islands  and  Antarctic  gulls  .  .  . 
And  under  seven  seas. 

Gathering  the  skulls  .  .  . 

Picking  off  bits  of  skin  in  ghostly  light 
Amid  the  storm-winds'  lulls  .  .  . 

[71] 


Black  skin  .  .  .  and  bronze  .  .  .  and  yellow  .  .  . 

But  chiefly  white,  or  what  had  once  been  white, 

Beside  white  fellow  .  .  .  and  white  fellow  .  .  . 

Skulls  .  .  .  skulls  .  .  .  some  broad  .  .  .  some  long  .  .  . 

Some  strong  .  .  . 

Some  brittle  .  .  . 

Some  big  .  .  .  and  some  so  little  .  .  . 

Little. 

He  takes  them  all  ...  with  one  same  set  grimace  .  .  . 

To  his  own  place.  .  .  . 


II 

Which  now  becomes  the  Mountain  of  the  Skulls 

At  the  red  river  of  the  Great  Mogul's 

Red  realms  of  silence  in  the  sunset  waste. 

A  red-white  cone,  in  no  green  forest  based, 

It  rises  alone  into  a  blood-red  sky, 

Out  of  its  own  bleak  talus  of  gray  chalk, 

Girt  with  still  clouds  of  ashen-red  on  high 

(Like  smoke  that  lingers  when  the  last  winds  die), 

Above  the  twisted  slag  of  vanished  fire 

And  rainless  pits  of  dust  that  once  was  mire, 

Over  eternal  fields  of  alkali  .  .  . 

It  glares  in  mute  and  changeless  after-glows 

Over  a  glassy,  crimson  stream  that  never  flows  .  .  . 

Changeless  ...  as  if,  between  the  time 

Of  stars  and  setting  sun, 

Great  Death  upon  that  desolated  clime 

His  last  great  work  had  done  — 

[72] 


Blasting  the  very  laws  of  day  and  night, 
To  gloat  forever  on  that  sight. 

There  is  no  stir,  except  the  hollow  roll 

Of  some  lone  skull,  down  like  a  bowl  .  .  . 

At  horrible  intervals  .  .  .  when  the  Mountain  quakes 

From  deep,  deep  under, 

As  the  still  living  earth  shudders  and  shakes 

With  subterranean  thunder. 


Ill 

Know  you  who  built  this  Mountain  of  the  Skulls, 

Who  piled  these  socket-heads  —  these  husks  and  hulls  ? 

Death  knows  who  piled,  who  built  .  .  . 

All  the  long  ages  of  the  race  of  man 

For  this  must  share  the  guilt! 

The  deep  inveteracy  of  thought  and  act, 

Forging  from  age  to  age  the  new  machines 

(From  chariots  scythed,  to  tanks  and  submarines), 

Becoming  tradition  in  each  court  and  clan 

With  sanctions  from  romance  and  fact, 

Had  made  a  habit  of  a  monstrous  means, 

Until  the  gesture  of  gun  and  sword  and  lance, 

The  quick-step,  the  salute,  the  bugle-blast, 

Grew  man's  fixed  nature  by  inheritance, 

And  this  To-day  was  born  from  out  the  Past. 

Know  you  who  reared  this  grinning  pyramid 
Of  hairless  polls  with  neither  lip  nor  lid  ? 
Death  knows  .  .  .  and  this  true  verse  .  .  . 

[73] 


The  European  gamesters,  sleek  and  fat, 

(Or  wiry,  gray,  and  bowing  from  the  hip), 

For  this  must  share  the  curse! 

A  hundred  years  about  the  board  adept 

They  played  for  this  or  that 

(A  coast,  or  isle,  or  stream,  or  mine,  or  ship), 

An  even  hundred  years  and  never  slept  .  .  . 

While  gold-laced  lackeys  brought  them  wine  to  sip  . 

Beside  the  bank-book  and  the  tall  silk  hat  .  .  . 

And  one  or  two  we  justly  deem  the  worse 

Free  not  all  others  from  the  awful  curse. 

Know  you  what  built  this  monument  of  state, 

For  the  Eternal  Potentate  ? 

He  knows  ...  he  knows: 

The  embowelled  pest  of  all-contagious  hate, 

That  in  men's  entrails  did  distill 

The  toxin  whence  their  thinking  did  create 

The  devil-foemen  each  set  out  to  kill. 

He  knows  ...  he  knows: 

The  tender  instincts,  fatal  as  they  work, 

Of  hearth  and  home  and  orchard-plot  and  kirk, 

The  passion  and  the  pride  we  name  divine, 

The  dear,  dear  land  and  landscape,  yours  and  mine, 

One  passion,  where  whatever  river  flows  — 

The  same  by  Rhone  or  Rhine. 

He  knows  ...  he  knows: 
That  exaltation  in  transfigured  eyes, 
That  insane  dance  of  love  beyond  all  love, 
That  fierce  infection  of  self-sacrifice 

[74] 


(All  other  primal  instincts  far  above), 

The  god's  intoxication, — 

As  seized  the  Corybantes  in  old  woods, 

And  maddened  the  Maenads  by  the  Phrygian  floods,- 

The  supreme  ecstasy  of  immolation  .  .  . 

Save  that  the  god  was  not  the  God  of  Birth, 

Or  of  New  Wine  that  gladdeneth  — 

Not  the  Great  Mother,  Earth, 

Not  Dionysus  —  but  Eternal  Death. 

What  raised  Skull  Mountain  to  the  sky?  — 

He  knows  ...  he  knows: 

That  cunning  power  of  self-doomed  mankind 

Revenge,  rage,  ruin,  greed,  to  justify 

By  concepts  deftly  put,  whereby 

It  gives  itself  —  by  self  conceived,  combined, 

Out  of  the  welter  of  its  corporate  life, 

The  intolerable  chaos  of  its  stress  and  strife  — 

Reasons  and  rhetoric  of  how-and-why, 

Which  seem  a  light  to  who  before  wrere  blind, 

And  urge  a  cause  and  strengthen  hosts  to  die, 

As  reason  summons  from  around,  behind, 

The  quickened  faith,  the  prayer  on  high,  — 

Till  Thought  and  Ethic,  vision-eyed 

(By  the  great  Ironist's  best  master-stroke 

Since  from  the  ape  the  man  awoke), 

End  in  one  suicide. 


IV 

And  yet  there  are  who  round  that  Mount  would  grope, 
Saying  they  too,  like  Death,  can  count  the  loss  .  .  . 

[75] 


Saying,  no  less,  it  is  the  Mount  of  Hope  .  .  . 
Saying,  "  We'll  crown  it  with  a  golden  cross." 


Know  you  the  Mountain  of  the  Skulls 

At  the  red  river  of  the  Great  Mogul's 

Red  realms  of  silence  in  the  sunset  sands  ?  — 

Know  you  it  really  —  what  it  is  —  and  WAS  ? 

By  all  the  dead  of  all  the  lands, 

The  loves,  the  hopes,  the  death-pangs  (day  or  night) 

(Or  short  or  long) 

That  housed  in  all  these  empty  shells 

(Where  now  not  even  the  living  blow-flies  buzz, 

Or  wild  bees  build  their  cells), 

By  this  vast  generation,  robbed  of  light, 

Of  flowers,  of  children,  poesy,  and  song, — 

In  name  of  future  good,  to  right  .  .  . 

(So  we  have  said)    ...  to  right  the  present  wrong,- 

By  all  the  dead  of  all  the  lands, 

We'll  swear  this  Mountain  stands, 

In  Kingdom  of  Great  Death  forever  stands, 

To  speak  to  Life  one  word  forevermore, 

On  every  sea  and  shore : 

No  League  of  Peace  (though  that  awhile  might  save, 

If  one  same  law  upon  each  capitol, 

Upon  each  arch  and  architrave, 

Were  clearly,  deeply  carved), 

No  League  nor  Law  will  do : 

But  those  despised  few 

[76] 


In  every  land  who  did  refuse  each  call  — 
The  dungeon-chained,  the  dungeon-starved  — 
Must  be  the  prophets  of  the  New 
Until  the  few  are  all. 


[77] 


VI     Scraps  of  Paper 

(Untorn) 

THE  PROPHET 

THE  PLEDGE 

MAY-NIGHT 

TO  THE  DEAD  DOUGHBOYS 


The  Prophet 

(A  Prophecy) 

INTO  a  world  of  Blood  and  Flame 
The  Prophet  with  his  Voices  came. 

And  the  Battle  stopped  and  the  People  said : 
"  For  ourselves,  our  children,  and  our  dead !  " 

And  he  journeyed  by  sea  in  times  of  awe 
To  write  in  a  Temple  the  Book  of  the  Law. 

But  (housed  with  Greed,  and  Feud,  and  Wit) 
New  worlds  of  Blood  and  Flame  he  writ.  .  .  . 

With  the  Prophet's  Voices  the  People  in  wrath 
Scourged  the  Prophet  from  their  Path. 

With  the  Prophet's  Voices  themselves  they  wrought 
The  Book  of  the  Law  whereof  he  taught. 

For  out  of  the  People,  blind  and  dumb, 
The  Prophet's  Voices,  unknown,  had  come. 


[81] 


The  Pledge 

(For  Robert  M.  La  Follette} 


IN  the  Valley  of  Decision, 

Down  the  Road  of  Things-that-are, 

You  gave  to  us  a  vision, 

You  appointed  us  a  star, 

And  through  Cities  of  Derision 

We  followed  you  from  far. 

On  the  Hills  beyond  To-morrow, 
On  the  Road  of  Things-to-do, 
With  that  strength  of  hand  we  borrow 
As  we  borrow  soul  from  you, 
We  know  not  sloth  nor  sorrow 
And  will  build  your  vision  true. 


May-Night 

BLUE  are  the  twilight  heavens  above  the  hill, 
A  yellow  half-moon's  high  within  the  blue, 
And  rosy  May-night  clouds  are  soft  and  still, 
And  all  the  world  beside  is  shut  from  view. 
The  plum-trees,  whitening  buds  and  greening  shoots, 
Close  in  the  dusky  cottage ;  and  beyond 
The  wood-thrush  in  the  hazel-thicket  flutes, 
And  frogs  are  croaking  in  the  unseen  pond. 

It  is  the  old,  the  odorous  privacy 
That  once  had  been  both  peace  and  gentle  song, 
But  now  how  such  an  evening  troubles  me 
After  earth's  five  most  awful  years  of  wrong  .  .  . 
Whilst  inland,  from  the  plains,  the  crags,  the  sea, 
With  all  the  stars  the  dead  men's  armies  throng. 


To  the  Dead  Doughboys 

(After  Versailles) 

BE  nothing  in  this  book  construed 
Against  your  Hope  and  Hardihood: 
They  mourn  you  most  who're  most  dismayed 
To  see  your  Golden  Stars  betrayed. 


[84] 


NOTE.  Of  the  preceding  collection,  The  Heretics  and  Tom 
Mooney  are  reprinted  from  The  Liberator;  The  Old  Agitator  is 
reprinted  from  The  Milwaukee  Leader;  As  I  Listened  by  the 
Lilacs  from  The  Wisconsin  Literary  Magazine,  Leo  Frank  from 
The  Wisconsin  State  Journal,  and  The  Pledge  from  The  Capitol 
Times.  The  Bastille  is  to  be  printed  in  The  World  Tomorrow 
and  The  Prophet  in  Young  Democracy. 


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